Pressure and Pink Dresses
by starry19
Summary: Or "The Time When Patrick Jane Decided Good Enough Wasn't Anymore." 6x21 tag/birthday present for Donnamour1969.


**AN**: A (day) late birthday gift for the wonderful, talented, and lovely Donnamour.

Some of this is wishful thinking, too. And I'm ignoring parts of the promo that don't fit with my story, so there. Written entirely while listening to "True Love Will Find You in the End," by Elizabeth and The Catapult (the song from the promo).

Oh, and BRING ON SEASON SEVEN. An entire season of Jane/Lisbon goodness! So, so happy about our renewal!

**Pressure and Pink Dresses**

**Or "The Time When Patrick Jane Decided Good Enough Wasn't Anymore"**

For almost twelve years, he'd been alone at night, with one non-exceptional exception. Time could go slowly, and it was hard to avoid the memories in the darkness, so he tried hard to compartmentalize then.

During the day, it wasn't so bad.

During the day, there was Lisbon. Checking on him, making sure no one punched, shot, or otherwise maimed his person. Occasionally going out for dinner with him.

Sometimes, she was even there during the nights, when her terrifying work ethic compelled her to empty her inbox or to go over affidavits one more time. He lost track of the times he'd found her asleep at her desk, ivory cheek squished against her keyboard or a post-it note stuck to her forehead.

And then, he'd wondered. What would it be like if she was sleeping against him, if her cheek was against his heart, if his nose was buried in her hair? She would be all softness and warmth, things that almost felt foreign to him now.

He'd never acted on his wonderings. They'd shared a handful of hugs, and the memories of them were usually good enough to get him through the worst of his rough patches.

Good enough was better than nothing.

It had been the same since they'd made Texas their new home. She was there to spend his days with, though her nights were now occupied by someone else.

But it was okay.

As long as he could have her for the requisite 40 hours a week, he would find a way to make that good enough, too.

He'd never considered that Pike would take her away, take her away completely.

There would be no good enough. There would be...nothing.

He would have an empty desk to look at, coffee cups he would never fill for her, a phone that would remain silent, and the memory of how she smiled at him when he walked into the room after missing her for two years.

There was nothing good enough about that.

Still, though, he had never truly believed she would leave him.

When Cho pulled him aside to tell him she had accepted a job in DC, he'd felt a tide of deep, black pain sweep over him that left his hands trembling. The other man had left him alone soon after, for which he was eternally grateful. He didn't have to hide the naked fear and hurt and agony that he was sure was written all over his face.

He'd given himself perhaps five minutes to wish he was dead, then he put his mask firmly back in place.

He hadn't been lying when he'd told her that the most important thing to him was her happiness. It was. And this would make her happy.

Seeing him this upset would have the opposite effect, so he tamped it down, hid it in the depths of the heart with the rest of the aching, nameless grief he carried with him, and went out to meet her with a smile.

When they were assigned a final case, he was determined to leave her with happy memories, and, in turn, to take everything he could get.

Lisbon seemed confused with his demeanor, and almost displeased.

What? What did she want?

He hadn't interfered with her personal life. He suspected her challenging tone when speaking about Pike was a test for him - _you promised. Can you keep it?_

She was the most important thing in his life. And, for once, he was going to do exactly what she asked. Anything to make her happy, anything to keep her with him.

It hadn't worked.

Perhaps...perhaps it was time to change his course of action.

Unless he really wanted to be That Guy, the one that let the woman he loved get on a plane and literally and figuratively fly out of his life.

He had nothing of value to offer her. His heart was such a damaged, battered, destructive thing - only an angel with actual wings would take it, and he didn't believe in angels.

But then he'd seen her in that dress, coming down the stairs looking utterly breathtaking. Scratch that - she was breathtaking. She'd stolen his entirely.

It was in that moment that he knew what her leaving would do to him.

He'd suspected, certainly, but now he _knew_.

It would break him.

He, who had survived so much hurt. This would be his undoing.

And, despite his fears, his absolute terror that burdening someone else with his love would be their demise, it was time to act.

She was still here.

For another twelve hours, she still belonged to him.

In his head, the clock started to tick.

After their con of a dinner, which culminated in her throwing water in his face, he knocked on her door, hair still damp. This was it. His face twisted. He could lose her now, if he didn't use the right words, if he didn't convince her that her place was wherever he was.

She had already changed. That was disappointing, but perhaps better. He could at least think more clearly.

"Hey," she said, and there was something unsure and hopeful behind her eyes, something that he had seen a lot in the past few weeks.

"Don't go," he said, without preamble, without hesitation, heart in his throat, not bothering to conceal his emotions.

Shaken, he knew, she let him in, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

"Don't go," he said again.

She swallowed. Hard. "Why?"

And now came the difficult part. Perhaps...perhaps he didn't need to come out with all of it. Perhaps he could just be logical and rational and she would agree and...

"Don't break up the team." There. That was perfectly sound reasoning.

Her eyes narrowed, and he saw something that looked remarkably like crushing disappointment. "The team isn't enough to make me stay, Jane," she said, matter of fact.

No. No, of course it wouldn't be.

His hands were shaking again.

There was nothing else for it.

"Am I enough to make you stay?" he asked, voice quiet.

For the first time, she looked him dead in the face, their eyes locked. He didn't hide his heart, even though every instinct of self-preservation he'd ever had was screaming at him to do just that.

Lisbon looked fiercely hopeful for just an instant.

"You could be," she said finally, voice just as soft as his.

"Stay," he echoed. "Stay with me."

Her eyes were wet.

"Why?" She sounded like the answer was vitally important, at least as important as breathing, which he was having trouble with.

Too late, he felt a tear slip down his cheek. Lisbon's gaze followed its progress.

Summoning his courage, he took a step towards her. She held her ground, and he knew that if he wanted her, he was going to have to be the one to cross the space between them.

So he did, one, two, three more steps, stopping a bare inch from her. He could see her pulse thundering in the base of her throat, her cross jumping.

Slowly, gently, he rested a hand against her neck, leaned down until their foreheads were touching. She was shaking too, or maybe it was all just him, and it didn't even really matter.

Her eyes closed, and he could see tears on her lashes.

"I love you," he breathed, and he felt her shudder. "I'm in love with you."

There was something so freeing about saying the words, such long-denied confession, something he had fought so hard against, afraid that he would do nothing but be a burden, cause her harm.

Her perfume wrapped around him, and he tilted his head, ghosting a kiss over her temple, her cheekbone, her jaw.

"I love you," he whispered, in between kisses.

Slowly, she raised her arms, slid them around his neck, linking her fingers. There was surrender in her embrace, and carefully, he rested his hands on her back.

Her forehead dropped to his shoulder, and she let out a deep sigh, and he was amazed at the mingled pain and relief he heard in it.

She still hadn't said anything.

He swayed them slightly, bodies pressed together. He got to keep her in this moment, and he would live in it.

She turned, face pressing into the curve of his neck.

In a moment, he realized she was crying.

"Lisbon?" he asked, trying to tilt her chin up.

She refused to let him, stubbornly gripping his jacket. "Just shut up," she finally choked out. "You're an idiot."

So he let her cry, hoping desperately that it was a good sign that she hadn't told him to go to hell yet.

Her hands fell from his shoulders to his waist, sliding under his coat, and he remembered he hadn't been touched like this in nearly a decade and a half.

It was heady, addicting, and tightened his arms around her small form.

When she finally looked up at him, eyes rimmed with red, face flushed, he kissed her.

He could taste salt from her tears, the cherry from her lip balm, just a hint of coffee. She made a small noise in the back of her throat, then she rose onto her tiptoes, hands on either side of his face.

Holding him in place?

Like he was going anywhere.

She ran her tongue across his bottom lip, and he spent the next several minutes happily not thinking about anything except for how much he wanted her, what she meant to him.

She was the one to pull back, breathing heavily now, lips swollen.

It crossed his mind that she still hadn't told him she was staying.

But he was silent, and she reached up, brushing his tumbling hair away from his forehead, resting one palm on his cheek. He leaned in to her touch, nuzzling slightly, and she smiled at him for the first time since he'd entered her room.

"Jane," she almost whispered. "Tell me you meant what you said."

She was scared, too, but for different reasons. "I meant it. I still mean it," he tacked on, "if you're wondering that, too."

A startled laugh escaped her, and he kissed the tip of her nose. "I love you," he repeated. "Stay with me."

There was a pause, then, "Yes."

He ducked his head, pressing his face into her hair, trying to control his own tears. His knees almost buckled, and his grip on her tightened.

"I love you," she whispered in his ear, fingers skating up and down his back, and he was unprepared for the reaction her words elicited. The last person to tell him that had been...had been Angela...

He kissed her again, deeply, thoroughly, passion building with every brush of their lips, every time he made her moan. Her hands were on his chest, slipping under his shirt that she'd managed to untuck, and the way she was pressed against him should have ended all question of whether or not he wanted her.

He pulled back abruptly, leaving her looking dizzy and slightly wonder-struck.

Slowly, he took a half-step back, and she frowned.

He smiled, slowly, seductively. "Go put that pink dress back on," he instructed.

"Why?" she demanded, clearly thinking he had other plans that didn't involve going immediately to bed and staying there for a number of hours.

His grin widened. "Because I want to take it off you."

He felt goosebumps rise on her arms beneath his hands, felt her already shaky breathing pick up another notch.

But she went...

Later, face pillowed by her breasts, the echo of her cries of pleasure still in his ears, he figured the dress was probably ruined. He'd meant to slide it off of her slowly, inch by inch, but things had...gotten away from him, especially when she'd found the zipper of his pants.

There had been the sound of fabric rending; he distinctly remembered that before he'd scooped her up and pinned her to the bed.

God, it had been worth the wait.

He wondered what would have happened if they had done this sooner. Then again, they had been different people before tonight, before now.

He was still a profoundly damaged person; he had the sense to recognize that, and so did she. But she had chosen him. Chosen to save him, more like.

To say that he had no idea of how to be in a relationship was an understatement. However, he was going to try to figure that out while actually _being_ in one. Lisbon would forgive him if he stumbled; he knew that much, just as long as he had the courage to keep trying to walk.

Later, he held her hand as she broke it off with Pike, tried to be okay with the few tears he saw. She did care about him, probably even loved him. It was hard to swallow, but he smoothed her hair and wiped her cheeks anyway.

It was all made worthwhile when she pressed her lips to his neck, hair tickling his bare chest.

There had been entirely too many tears. They had been necessary, healing even, but he vowed to ensure they be kept at a minimum going forward.

He'd taken her back to bed after that, losing himself in her, gratified when his name fell from her lips.

She curled into his chest then, the sheets pulled over both of them, and he thought that this was as close to heaven as he was likely to get. He kissed her bare shoulder, remembered he hadn't kissed every one of her freckles, an egregious oversight he needed to remedy soon.

Her eyelashes tickled him as she closed her lids, and he remembered that he had all the time in the world now.

Forty years, if he was lucky.

Honestly, he figured the world owed him that much now.

And, he thought, a flash of pink catching his eye, he owed Lisbon a new dress.

Worth it, though.

Absolutely worth it.

Especially when, a week later, she came home from work to find her closet stuffed with a rainbow of chiffon dresses, every color it came in.

She laughed, was still laughing when he kissed her.

And then her mouth was busy doing much more important things.


End file.
